


you forget who you are

by precipitation



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Minor Violence, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 09:39:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17020278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/precipitation/pseuds/precipitation
Summary: But it was that Akaashi Keiji who, munching upon spicy cod roe onigiri, said, “It’s only natural. I was once your knight in a previous life.”





	you forget who you are

**1.  
=======**

That’s rich, coming from Akaashi. Akaashi Keiji, the same guy who once asked him, “Are you an alien?” with a sort of practical incredulousness, after Bokuto had reasonably inhaled a large bowl of ramen in three minutes. Akaashi Keiji, chiseled from a boulder of practicality, who, for some reason, regarded his “setter dog” shirt with a wry, smug humor, like he was more amused about the intellectual wit than the actual jest. 

But it was that Akaashi Keiji who, munching upon spicy cod roe onigiri, said, “It’s only natural. I was once your knight in a previous life.”

**2.  
=======**

Chuunibyou. Middle school syndrome. Delusions of grandeur. Bokuto understood. Bokuto sympathesized. Everybody wanted to be special. Everybody harbored a weak, persistent yearning to be someone fated to a greater destiny. Everybody except Bokuto, of course, who had a reasonable grasp of the magnitude of his own greatness, fate, destiny, et al. But this was Akaashi Keiji, whose face was sometimes screwed up in a permanent mask of incredulous horror, who was rambling on about--

“The economic repercussions were vast. In recordable history, the commerce had evolved from a bartering system based on the heavy agrarian emphasis from the former inner reaches of the kingdom.”

And--

“Magic, so to speak, was not so much a commodity as an innate talent, but not necessarily granted only to the royalty. They had fewer concepts of noblesse oblige, but in general, the most basic service for a lord would be providing protective services.” 

And--

“That is not to say that was how taxes were primarily generated, especially taken into consideration the unique tariffs imposed on the neighboring kingdoms.”

“Wait,” Bokuto said. “Wait, you couldn’t have been a knight. You play volleyball.”

“This was a past life.” Akaashi wiped a grain of rice from his cheek. They rested, together, atop a shallow hill. The rest of their afternoon practice lap sprawled beneath them, winding through the stone garden walls and the latticework of wooden walls. A quiet and vast history emananted in the faint mist, as visible as the neighboring houses. 

“You play volleyball,” Bokuto said, “with me.” 

“You were a king.” Akaashi rested his head against the bark of the tree. “I believe you possessed magic as well. Of course, my magic was forged for more combative purposes, but I specialized in long-distance battles.” 

“Akaashi, I know what you think, but I’m thinking you’re not thinking what you’re thinking, you think?”

“You had wings.”

“Okay, I believe you.” 

“Please be more discerning, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi said, grave disapproval heavy on his eyebrows. 

“What kind of wings? Did I fly a lot? Was I cool? Did they have swords on them? Did I have swords for wings? Or volleyball wings? How high were my spikes?” Bokuto leaned over, hands full flush into the damp grass. So close to him, he could see the fine details of Akaashi’s face in the mid-morning light. Akaashi’s face wasn’t a mask, but Bokuto couldn’t have told if Akaashi was lying or telling the truth. Wth Akaashi, it never mattered in the real sense. The important parts: his bandaged fingers, resting atop his knees; the angle of his cocked knee; the length of his eyelashes. The flush of his cheeks, the light touch of perspiration, the casual strut of his hair. 

“Some would say your wings were beautiful,” Akaashi said, staring into the melting sun. 

**3.  
=======**

It didn’t come up often, not between the flying receives and the endless laps and the early morning and late night spiking and hard bargaining to take his rightful candy from the first years and it wasn’t stealing, Akaashi, nor was it theft, they played the game, fair and square, and if Bokuto happened to get a thirty second head start due to his ingenuity, then it was even fairer and squarer. But Akaashi’s--delusions--did surface, like the slick of oil after rain, a quiet sheen. 

“So what does it mean?” Bokuto had insisted on stopping on the park after practice, but Akaashi had refused to play on the see-saws. Instead, they relegated to the swings. Akaashi’s backpack leaned against the pole while Bokuto’s book bag sprawled out in the sand. 

“It means you need to give Shirofuku-san her notebook back,” Akaashi said, “or never return to the club room again.” 

“No, I mean your knighthood,” Bokuto said, interrupting Akaashi’s little ‘the latter would be fine as well,’ because this was important. “If I was your king, does that mean you feel like serving me? Obeying my every order? Hey, jump fifty meters high.”

“They’re simply memories. It wasn’t so romantic,” Akaashi said. “I could use a little magic. I served my lord willingly, even if I wasn’t inspired by his heroics. I fought in battles, achieved honors, died nobly in the battlefield.” 

“Go find a tsuchinoko.”

“I don’t feel any obligation to do as you say. In fact, I strongly feel the opposite.”

“So what’s the point?” 

“There is no point. These are just my memories.” Akaashi drew a thin line in the sand, toeing a shallow trench beneath the ruminating swing. “I hadn’t intended to tell anyone about this.” 

“But you felt all those knight genes in you, from a long time ago, that made you go, this guy is really cool, so I got to be his buddy, so you became my buddy.” 

“Knight genes.” Akaashi stared ahead at the liminal row of houses, structured like boxes knotted together, over the chipped terrace walls and wrought iron fences. “I’m surprised you would be so pessimistic to think people would befriend you solely on genetic obligation.” 

“Maybe in the beginning, but I’m sure I won you over, despite your resistance. It’s like those romances that play on the TV when you’re watching dinner.” Bokuto halted his swing, digging both feet into the ground, to stare into Akaashi’s eyes. “‘Akaashi. Don’t fall for me.’” “I won’t,” Akaashi said, simultaneously. 

“But,” Akaashi continued, “I recalled these memories after I met you. Fairly recently. I didn’t tell you this to inspire any doubt in you, though I wouldn’t mind it if that happened.” 

“Akaashi, like me a little more already.”

“It just started to feel like a secret.” The faint clatter of the train station rang in the distance, and Akaashi frowned like a part of him still lived in the faraway castle. Bokuto was no good with secrets--why would he be, it was so much more fun to teach others. He always figured Akaashi would be better with them, since he had his volleyball notebook tucked away and strategic plans folded away in whispers. Or maybe it was the implication, found in Akaashi’s clenching jaw and the cocked angle of his neck to the ground. Not so much ‘I don’t like keeping secrets,’ but ‘I don’t like keeping secrets from…’ 

“Don’t worry, Akaashi. I won’t tell anyone that I think a volleyball hit you on the head really hard.” Bokuto puffed out his chest in pride. 

“I’m going home.” Akaashi hopped off his swing, grabbing his backpack in a solid move. Bokuto couldn’t see what was so popular about this guy. Churlish, stubborn, sneaky. Not a single good bone in his body. Bokuto slung his arm around Akaashi’s shoulders, feeling the lanky muscles accede to the new weight.

“Buy me a can of something on the way home,” Bokuto said. 

“I’ll think about it,” Akaashi said, in the tone that said he would sigh and raise his eyes upward, but under the light of the flickering lamp, he’d fish out his coin bag from his backpack, and allow his long fingers to linger upon the scuffed buttons of the vending machine. 

**4.  
=======**

Bokuto knew Akaashi. He knew that Akaashi would order the #3 meal at McDonalds, that he would forego the Gudetama flurry, but still give an almost inquisitive glance at the coffee brewing in the corner. Akaashi Keiji preferred the corner stool seats, even when Bokuto eyed the far superior window seating facing the mid-afternoon crowd at the train station. Bokuto still squeezed into the furthest seating so he could half-watch Detective Conan play on the barbershop television down below. 

“I think magic could exist here,” Akaashi said. “Like how it existed as a tangential fact in the kingdom.”

“Oh,” Bokuto said, reaching for Akaashi’s chicken nuggets. “Sure.” 

Akaashi swatted his hand away. “I’ve never tried to perform any magic in this world. The more straightforward of them, the elementals, seem impossible. The easily hidden, like the thoughts and soul magic, are difficult to prove.” 

“What was your best kind of magic?” 

“Mind and wind,” Akaashi said. “The elements, such as water and fire, were considered as more discrete factions. Yet other ephemeral magic blended together in ways nigh indistinguishable to all but the highest echelon of scholars.” 

Bokuto chewed on his burger and thought about the morning practice, where he had done a really cool spike. The sting resonated in his hand.

“Though I suppose if that kind of magic did exist in this world, and I was the only one who could perform such actions, I would feel troubled as well.” Akaashi clenched and unclenched his fist across the marble surface. “For one thing, the violent nature of my wind arrows and mind manipulation wouldn’t befit my ordinary school life. For another, to consider oneself as ‘better’ or ‘special in traits given without work’ would encourage a degree of egotistical narcissism that would be akin to your own.” 

“Not everybody can be one of the top five aces in the country.”

“Not everybody can be in the top three, either.”

“Gakyou.” 

“Don’t choke.” Akaashi bit into a nugget. “The concept of magic in this world is appealing. To do as you wished, to surpass expectations, to gain praise for being clever.” 

“Yeah, I like it when people tell me I’m cool.” Bokuto balled up his burger wrapper. “I like it when you tell me that you like me the most.”

“I’ve never told you that.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” The high schoolers, with various uniforms, wedged themselves into the booths of the restaurant, while the crisp office workers filed in for their late lunches. Bokuto slurped the last of his drink, cool condensation wetting his fingers. 

“Your magic was spirit and wind, if I remember right,” Akaashi said. 

“Oh, wind too? We must’ve fought really good together.”

Akaashi hesitated a moment too long before saying, “Our magics were certainly compatible.” 

“Are you lying to me?” 

“Would I do that to you, Bokuto-san.”

“A hundred times over.” His mouth tasted like the burger, so he stole Akaashi’s drink and sipped through the straw. Akaashi stared at him, something flirting over his impassive eyes, before turning his attention to the quiet doors sliding open and shut for the next wave of hungry customers. 

“Still,” Akaashi said. “It wouldn’t have been bad to have magic in this life.” 

“Yeah. I think so too. Imagine this, Akaashi—you’re late to school—”

“I’m never late.” 

“Suddenly, you get a gust of wind to carry you down the street. Not just any wind! A super special wind, where it goes way way way faster than if you just ran, and you can move real cool, like a swishy swooshy movement, but then you get there really fast!” 

“A bike, Bokuto-san.” 

“What?”

“You’re talking about a bike.”

“Oh.” Bokuto slid Akaashi’s drink over to him again. Of course he’d still want magic to exist, even in a world with bikes and Segways and Vespas. Walking home from late-night gym practice, he’d like the thrum of the trees and the whispers of the grass to sing in his bones. And more than his medieval counterpart, the cement walls cresting the roads, the messy and warm light draping down from the local stationery store, the fiery heat from the subway trains would all be a part of that spiritual miasma. For the wind magic, well. He couldn’t imagine it’d be much different than when he flew into the air to drive a sharp straight past his opponents, the volleyball set towards him with a firm trust. 

“You’re thinking about volleyball, aren’t you.” Akaashi played with the straw of his drink. He bent the plastic towards him, agile fingers perched against the cap, and carefully sipped at the straw. His face remained impassive except for a quick dart of his eyes.

“Yeah, how’d you know?” Bokuto said, resting his head against his arm. “It’s almost like you still got the magic here.” Though Akaashi’s abilities weren’t something as mundane as magic, Bokuto knew. 

**5.  
=======**

The flurry of papers crammed into his bag, taunting him with the red checkmarks. Biology, world history, classical literature, and he jammed his legs underneath his desk to write a half-hearted essay about the meaning of birds in the sky, which was always something something the definition of beautiful, because Bokuto’s best grade was a middle school essay about beauty and he was still gambling on that high to carry him through his high school years. The activity in the gym rose, too, like a chaotic incline. This was the best part of his day. The gym, beckoning with its polished floorboards and familiar castings of nets. He shoved out the cart of volleyballs, the squeaky wheel running haywire over each crack with a rat-ta-ta-ta. 

The last tournament of his high school years. The volleyball thrown firm for him, the opponents grinning and smirking beyond the net, the treating of snacks to his kouhai and some from his kouhai, the winding laps around the school while their weathered coach watches in the distance, a blur of white and yellow and black in the official track jacket. At the training camp, after the bath, he didn’t altogether expect Akaashi to start mumbling about philosophy, but he couldn’t say it surprised him, either. This was Akaashi, after all. It felt very Akaashi-like for him to sit on the bench and musing, “This wasn’t what I thought death would be like.”

“Well,” Bokuto said reasonably. “We are alive.” He plopped down on the bench beside him, sprawled out loose. He’d just finished winning a difficult mental battle of pillow fighting against Komi, who could jump far as well as high. Konoha, a treasured friend, had been a bystander casualty in the crossfire with a whopper in the face that sent him sprawling across three futons. Bokuto had no regrets.

“I remembered they said the departed soul would be brought for judgment upon the gates of a white castle,” Akaashi said. “The formation of the mythology must have been shaped by the fear of the wilderness, where the wild animals, poisonous plants, and other lurking dangers still presented a formidable threat even with the presence of magic. Of course, the elementals were still presented in the presiding judge of your soul, which they said was dependent on the magic that you had been gifted at birth. I may hypothesize the genetic makeup of magic may be similar to some rudimentary understanding of DNA or even RNA, but we cannot thoughtlessly adapt our modern world into this mythical realm.”

Bokuto slung his arm around Akaashi’s shoulders. “Yeah, me too.” 

Akaashi smelled good right out of the bath. Not that Akaashi didn’t usually smell nice, even when sweat drenched his brow and he raised the hem of his T-shirt to wipe at his face. But he had a fluffy, clean smell to him now. His hair had not fully dried, the aggressive spikes flicked downwards. 

“A famous cartographer once had drawn a map of this fabled land,” Akaashi said. His voice did not carry in the hallway, almost absorbed by the dark night through the window. “You are greeted by your chosen god, a figure of gust and gale, seven wings of zephyr and breath, eleven mercurial hurricane eyes. The god of wind and change. Your soul, judged, at those gates, to be decided if you should be rewarded or punished.”

“Like Santa.” 

“It’s not so different from this life,” Akaashi said, bending forward like a sudden weight had fallen upon his shoulders. A trickle of water slid down the smooth nape of his neck. “You believe if you do enough good, you will be forgiven for the bad.” His eyes flickered away.

Posters had been tacked to the bulletin board down the hallway. The laminated ones shone with an inner luminescence from the hallway lights, which reflected off the square windows. Night had obscured the yard where they had ran their laps in the early afternoon, the trees a smear of shadows.

“So what does it mean if you were reincarnated?” Bokuto rested against the broad width of Akaashi’s back until Akaashi had fallen into an awkward, irritated hunch. “You got the trophy, or you got second place?”

“I’m not sure. This wasn’t part of the mythos.” Akaashi stretched out his hands before him, his weathered calluses and long fingers before him. “Perhaps I worshipped the wrong god, or my goodness, however little, merited nothing.”

“Hey, Akaashi. You start talking with that sad face, I might start listening.” Bokuto grabbed Akaashi’s hand. “Not that I wasn’t listening earlier, but I wasn’t.”

Akaashi regarded him levelly. Bokuto knew Akaashi, or knew him enough to know he was an awkward kinda kid. Sometimes his emotions were battened down so much that no twitches would cross his mouth, shoulders stock still, imperceptible. Not even his pulse, in Bokuto’s hands, heightened. But Akaashi just seemed a little happy for some reason. A real awkward kinda kid. 

“Well, we can’t have you actually listening to me for once,” Akaashi finally said, turning his face away. “I suppose we can talk about how many serves you missed this morning. Or how the ball hit your face during your run-up. Or when you smashed into me during a block.”

“Do we have to talk at all?” Bokuto weaved his fingers into Akaashi’s hands, grasping his warmth. When his wrist slid against Akaashi’s, the pulse did flutter like the beating of wings. He pressed their palms together. Akaashi sat still beside him, elegant and poised, strong and consistent, ears red. 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi said, and finally broke out in a soft smile. “Of course we do. Shall we get started on when you started sulking and climbed onto the roof, or the time you actually thought you were cleverly hidden beneath your jacket when you never left the room in the first place?”

**6.  
=======**

But Bokuto did remember, several days later, to say, “You’re good, Akaashi.” 

“What?” Akaashi had been spinning around a volleyball in his hands, ready for another set of their ‘just a very eensey weensey little bit’ practice after the regular practice, which had now spanned into the second hour. The other balls scattered across the floor. Bokuto wiped the sweat from his brow with a small towel.

“You’re a good person, Akaashi.” 

“I don’t need you to tell me that.” 

“You shouldn’t, but I will,” Bokuto said. “Next ball?” He motioned for the ball to be tossed for him. Akaashi stood there, a strong figure of plain colors with his white T-shirt and black shorts. They stood too far apart for Bokuto to read his expression, but the ball that sailed towards him had a pure simplicity to its arc.

**7.  
=======**

“You should go home soon,” Bokuto said, finished with the school tie looped over his neck. Akaashi had his black notebook out on the desk beneath the peeling idol poster, pencil flying in small ticks. At those words, his head flew up with incensed eyes, as if trying to insinuate that practicing until the sun went down was somehow Bokuto’s fault. Nonsense. It wasn’t Bokuto’s fault that Konoha somehow needed to go home early because his house needed watering, his favorite anime (Lovely Kyun-Kyun Higi High School Hijinks, Komi had helpfully supplied the title from across the room, and Konoha had whipped around with alarming speed) was airing tonight, he’d just painted his kettle and needed to watch it boil and dry, and so could not stay for setting to Bokuto practice. Konoha had a tough life. 

“There are still some things I need to finish,” Akaashi said. “Paperwork for the captaincy next year.” His pencil slowed. 

“Yeah?” Bokuto sat across from him, turning the chair around so he could rest his chin across the back. He couldn’t read upside down, but he did enjoy watching Akaashi write in his precise strokes. His bag dropped against Akaashi’s backpack, where the matching keychain jangled.

“I can lock up if you’d like to go home first,” Akaashi said.

“Are you nervous for next year?” 

“I’m surprised you think about the future at all.”

“Akaashi, just because I forgot my lunch money this whole week doesn’t mean I don’t think at all,” Bokuto said. “I mean, of course we’re going to play volleyball next year and the year after that and the year after that. I’ll play volleyball forever.”

“That’s highly impractical, Bokuto-san.”

“But the time I had here, at Fukurodani, with the team, it’s irreplaceable. I really cherish you guys, you know. Even though I caused everybody all that trouble, everyone cherished me, too.” 

“If you knew you were causing trouble, why did you not stop.”

“Well, I’ll think of some swines of wisdom to say to you guys when we leave you the team. Or maybe Washio will have a really long speech, I dunno. Hey, are you gonna be lonely next year? Are you? Are you going to miss all of us?” 

“First, it’s ‘pearls before swine’ and ‘pearls of wisdom.’ Second, no.” Akaashi’s pencil moved again, though he wasn’t writing anything on paper. “Aren’t you going to get an apartment next year?” 

“Yeah, it’s gonna have a great view of a really lovely wall.”

“I’ll visit,” Akaashi said, flipping back and forth to an empty page. “I was your knight. I know that you royalty aren’t able to take care of yourselves. You have to maintain a good nutrition level. A little sloppiness can go a long way. You don’t even remember to dry your hair sometimes. Of course I wasn’t your servant, but as your knight, I can still do as much.” 

“Akaashi, don’t cast your pearls before wisdom.” Bokuto winked, which only seemed to irritate Akaashi more. Restless, Akaashi tightened Bokuto’s tie and ran his fingers to straighten his collar. Bokuto had to brace himself with his elbows against the edge of the desk.

“You’ve attended this school for three years and you still can’t always get your tie right. You left your shoes in my locker again last night. I heard you visited the cheer room during your lunch break so you can listen to their accolations, but because you forgot to eat, your stomach growled loud enough to disrupt the entire class. I have no idea why you wanted to combine volleyball and baseball, but you have to apologize to Washio and the coach later. You never listen. I hate the way you look at me sometimes.” 

“Yeah?” Bokuto cocked his head, a predatory grin creeping on his face. “Like now?” 

Akaashi regarded him, then tugged his tie close enough to kiss him. Akaashi’s mouth felt firm, though the kiss itself only lasted for a moment before Akaashi sat back in his chair. His expression hadn’t changed, but he stared out the window now, where the cherry blossoms glowed beneath the streetlamp. 

“You’re not gonna say nice receive?” Bokuto grinned. Akaashi closed his notebook and tucked his pencil back into his beat-up case, depositing them both without ceremony into his open backpack. The zipper snapped shut with a brisk motion and Bokuto caught Akaashi’s hand as he began to rise.

“Hey hey hey,” Bokuto said. Akaashi stayed in his seat, so Bokuto stood up to lean across the desk and kiss him again. He slid his hand over Akaashi’s cheek, holding him steady. He was right, Akaashi’s mouth was firm and strong, a solid presence beneath him. This felt natural, like pieces slotting together, as easy as the next step of a walk. He kept his eyes closed because that’s how they did this on the TV, but he felt the tug of his jacket. Bokuto grinned into the kiss. 

When he pulled back, Akaashi still had a vulnerable fistful of jacket. The wind swayed the trees outside in a loud whisper and Akaashi stared at him, impassive with glittering eyes.

**8.  
=======**

A few months later, Bokuto called Akaashi and asked, “How do you cook?” which was how he found Akaashi on his doorstep. A storm had been on the horizon all week. The gray clouds weighed heavy towards the earth, fleeced with the quiet rain. The wind howled like a beast in the distance, beckoned by mighty wings. And there stood Akaashi Keiji, still in his high school uniform, wrapped in a slim dark jacket and a scarf that covered his red nose. Akaashi tugged the wool down towards his neck, releasing a puff of visible breath. Out of curiosity, Bokuto placed his hands on Akaashi’s cheeks. They were cold and smooth, and the cheekbones protruded into his hands.

“You look like an egg,” Bokuto said.

“Long time no see, Bokuto-san.”

They boarded at the east station. Akaashi leaned against the pole on the train, swaying with the gentle rhythm. At the AEON mall, Akaashi grabs him by the sleeve and drags him towards the kitchenware. They passed by the fine china towards the pots and pans, where Akaashi picked up and placed down several flat steel pans, checked inside ceramic pots, and regarded a cast iron skillet with suspicion. 

“How long do these last?” Bokuto said, hands stuffed into his pockets. 

“This brand should last five years, if you take care of it,” Akaashi said, who had begun to graze the ‘sale!’ stickers with narrowing empathy.

“Isn’t there anything that lasts, like, 130 years?” Visiting the mall should be reserved for the exciting things, like browsing the sports stores and trying on new shoes. 

“A lifetime, you mean?” Akaashi looked like he was about to say boring things like ‘rebates’ and ‘warranty,’ so Bokuto cut him off. 

“You should live until you’re 131, Akaashi.” Bokuto puffed out his chest for his wit, but Akaashi’s expression somehow crumpled. He had no dramatic nose scrunch or angry pout, but between the blinks of his dark eyes, he became resigned. He slid his hands down the saucepan and mumbled something unformed and unheard. Akaashi always wore his sadness beneath his clothes, while they unfairly called Bokuto temperamental because he had once refused to climb out of a tree because he was feeling so sad over something that must have been something important, even if he’d been lured down by ice cream later.

The rain still had not fallen when they boarded the train again. Bokuto, now a new owner of a skillet, half-watched the inked mountains in the distance, behemoths beyond the apartments and shopping centers. The mist crept towards them with the ravaging wind, which licked Akaashi’s hair into a mess. Bokuto’s hair, of course, was always astoundingly good-looking. 

Akaashi half-heartedly began the dinner. Absorbed in his thoughts, he did not so much instruct as show. The rice cooker hummed along until he paddled the warm fluffy rice into the bowls. He cooked the chicken, cutted the garlic, and stirred the pot. When the steam rumbled to a halt, he ladled the folds of curry over the rice. The school jacket had been tossed over a chair, and he had folded the crisp white shirt up to his elbows. 

“It’s good,” Bokuto said. The curry had a sweet and heavy taste. “I could eat your cooking for the rest of my life.” 

“I see,” Akaashi said. 

“I died first, huh.” 

Akaashi snapped his head up, a deep frown chiseled into his face. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“In your fake past life. I must’ve died first. It’s okay, you can just live until you’re 130 in this life.” Bokuto was nothing if not benevolent. “You know, sometimes I can almost remember it. Maybe it’s because you talk about it so much, but I get dreams. Of this so-called past.” 

“What do you remember?” Akaashi gripped his spoon tight enough that his knuckles paled. His eyes were dark and hard. 

“They’re just dreams, Akaashi.” Bokuto grinned. “If you really wanna hear about my dreams, I’ll get started with the best one. Okay, so listen, I’m in a wheat field and it’s really yellow and suddenly there’s Kamen Rider, but from a really old Kamen Rider series, like Kamen Rider Wizard or something, and you can tell because-”

“No, I don’t want to hear about that.”

“He starts shaking my hand, right, and he’s saying, you’re the best in the world, and I don’t know best what but I’m guessing person, or thing, but he’s not speaking with his mouth. The entire sky is speaking. And of course, I want to take a picture of him shaking my hand, so I’m putting my cell phone in my mouth so I could swallow it, when-”

“If I hear any more of this, I’ll become corrupted.”

“And when I wake up, I remember I gotta send you a good morning text.” 

“Is that why you wake me up at five in the morning?”

“You know, Akaashi, I got recordings of our games on DVD. Let’s watch them after dinner. Always cheers me up.” Bokuto beamed, and pretended he didn’t hear Akaashi’s soft mutterings of ‘simple-minded’ and didn’t see Akaashi’s small inhale of ‘I suppose, if we must, I’ll indulge him,’ even if he did look happy about the prospect. 

When they washed the dishes, the clouds had broken into a quiet rain. The drops fell in soft relief against the window pane. Across the building, white-winged birds wheeled across the soft gales.

Bokuto’s couch had been inherited from a neighbor, a comfortable lounge that seated him against Akaashi’s side in a squeeze. Wielding the remote, Bokuto skipped through to the good parts, and then back again to watch the games with the announcer’s riveting details. They, of course, also watch Akaashi’s spartan plays. Consistent, not showy, but with an understated skill and intelligence. Not Kenma’s cleverness, not Kageyama’s hunger. Just good plays with Akaashi’s sharp eyes and unbidden smiles.

“I’m sure you don’t watch these just to study them,” Akaashi mumbled, drowsy with his head tilting forward. But despite his own words, he awoke in small spurts when Bokuto appeared on screen.

“I figure if you watch closely enough,” Bokuto said, “you can probably see the moment I fall in love with you.”

Only the glow of the television radiated in the room. Bokuto thought he heard Akaashi turn to look at him, but when he glanced back, Akaashi had returned to staring at the television. His eyes were more open and he rubbed his thumb over his forefinger quicker than usual. 

**9.  
=======**

One morning, Akaashi stepped on him.

“Watch out,” Bokuto squawked. Akaashi, that impertinent guy, only looked more befuddled. 

“Why are you lying on the floor?” 

“I’m thinking!”

“So whenever you’re standing up, you’re not thinking?”

**10.  
=======**

One night, after Akaashi had turned off his reading lamp, they laid together in bed. Bokuto had a long day of practice and he was already fading fast to sleep. Akaashi rustled beside him, the picky sleeper who needed the exact allotment of the blanket and perfect fluffiness of the pillow before falling into a comatose sleep that required an industrial standard alarm clock to rouse him with his hair sticking up in the back. Bokuto, on the other hand, would have been fast on his way to snoring if he hadn’t felt Akaashi’s hand on his face. He felt the thumb slide against his cheek, fingers tilting against his jaw, hair being brushed back.

“Oh,” Akaashi said. 

Bokuto, exhausted, squeezed open an eye. Akaashi seemed surprised at something, fearful as his eyes darted in thought across their room. Bokuto’s messiness of the day had been corralled by Akaashi’s organization. The socks had been tucked away and the desk had been cleared to make room for Akaashi’s notebooks and laptop. Bokuto’s apartment had never been so neat.

“Oh,” Akaashi said, softly. Bokuto had an early morning, so he only kissed the palm of Akaashi’s hand and flopped closer to subside to sleep. After a long moment, he felt more than his usual share of the blanket pulled over him, tucking him into warmth.

**11.  
======**

Akaashi had been reading a King Arthur novel, The Once and Future King. More interesting to Bokuto was the glasses. Akaashi had reading glasses now, dark rims perched on his nose while he flipped the pages. Bokuto amused himself by poking at Akaashi’s cheeks. After the third poke, Akaashi smoothed down the pages of his book and said, monotone, “What is it, Bokuto-san.” 

“I told you, call me by my first name, Kei-ji. Anyway, I had a dream last night.”

“Fascinating,” Akaashi said. A tinge of pink had risen to his face. The wintry air had a cold bite. 

“You were in it.”

“Was I reading undisturbed?” 

“Nah, you were dressed in this black armor, with kind of a gold tint, you know? And you had a sword and you were running towards me.” Bokuto rested his head against his fist, elbow sprawled over the top of the bench. “It was a pretty place, too. Tree. Lakes. Nature. Nurture. Babies. We could have a baby.”

“So you remember.” Akaashi had turned his face away. Snow had fallen in the morning, though it had stopped by the time Bokuto shoved his feet into his snow boots. Some soft clumps crowned the dark boughs of the trees. 

“Yeah, of course I do,” Bokuto said immediately, because that was the answer to anniversaries and birthdays and visiting Akaashi’s parents. Yeah, of course he remembered they were going to that prestigious award ceremony, and he wasn’t texting Konoha behind his back to try and get him to pick up a nice tie for him somewhere because he’d used his nicer tie in a fake volleyball net. Right, back to babies. Had they already agreed to have a baby? Bokuto was going to be a father. He needed to text Kuroo and rub that in his face.

“The trees were silver and gold,” Akaashi said. “The lake was pristine. The land was beautiful, and that was where I killed you.” 

They hadn’t been the only city people who had taken a day trip to see the snow. In the distance, a family walked down the dark path. 

“Well,” Bokuto said reasonably. “We are alive.”

“I didn’t lie to you out of malice. I don’t know why I did it.” Akaashi held the book on his lap. “I’m surprisingly cowardly.” 

“It happens to the best of us,” Bokuto murmured, patting him on the shoulder in hesitant pat-pat-pats.

“I was never your knight. I was a knight, but for another kingdom. It was a pitiful squabble. It shouldn’t have ended in your death. I don’t believe my queen even wished for that. You had been separated from your troops and I saw you. I killed you. My sword ran through your chest and I heard your bones crunch and your heart stop. The last pulse of blood whipped across my face and it was warm in my open mouth. You had your wings out, you must have been mending a wound on them, but your white wings had become mangled and mottled with your own blood. They were long, they must have spanned half the field, and it took so long for all of you to drop into the lake. By the time the last of your wingtips had fallen, the plumes of your blood had spread to the shore. I had to take a reward, so before you washed away, I pinned you down with my sword and tore away a fistful of feathers. Your eyes were open the entire time. You had the same eyes. Gold.” 

Bokuto wrapped his arm around Akaashi’s shoulders. He seemed colder than usual. The tip of his nose had flushed pink and the corner of his eyes seemed red. Bokuto buried his nose into Akaashi’s scarf.

“It was like killing a bird. Taking away its freedom, its wings, its calling. They called me the kingslayer. Some praised me. Some scorned me. I was awarded, respected, and feared. You were so adored that even those who bought me drinks in celebration of your death would regard me with wariness, like I was a caged animal. For the rest of my long life, hundreds of years later, I would still see the image of your death imprinted as a white scar on the back of my eyes.”

“Akaashi, I’m sorry.” Bokuto scrunched his nose, trying to grasp the elusive condolences. “But birds are, you know, beautiful, so maybe you were just taken by the beauty. That’s why you remember it so much. Like you thought seeing those wings for the first time was really beautiful. That’s why birds are symbolized like that in the literature- I mean, you’re beautiful, too, Akaashi.”

Akaashi laughed. A puff of vapor emerged after the short sound. “Maybe. Perhaps you’re right.” 

Bokuto placed his hand on the back of Akaashi’s neck, firm beneath his scarf. Akaashi sat still, staring at the thin coats of snow on the grass.

“I didn’t lie to you about most of it. Like I said, I didn’t recover these memories until after I had known you for some time. It felt real. It was real, memories like my first trip to the store mingled with memories of practicing with my sword. I felt real sadness, and I knew if you ever remembered this, you would feel real anger.” 

“But I don’t remember it,” Bokuto said.

“No. I suppose you don’t.” Akaashi rubbed his hands together in a slow, methodical circle. “But when I thought about how much resentment you would have, the righteous anger you would feel. The way you would look at me, in disgust, when you realized what I had done. If there had been the god of wind and change, he hadn’t granted me to the ability to change enough.”

“So if you were that afraid, why did you stay with me, even after graduation?” Bokuto tilted his head. A familiar knowing smirk came to Akaashi’s face.

“That was your own fault. I had a choice to make. To stay in my memories, in that beautiful land of magic and fantasy. Or I could see what was in front of my eyes and stay with my best friend.” Akaashi smiled and turned to look at him. “I could choose to love him.”

“Keiji,” Bokuto said, touched. “Just to be sure, are you talking about me or Tsukki?”

“You always were so troublesome. I wanted to take care of you. I wanted to watch you.” Akaashi took Bokuto’s hand. “I’m fortunate you were the one I killed.”

“Keiji, think of a better way to say that.” Bokuto curled his fingers into Akaashi’s hand. “So do you feel all sad about that and stuff?”

Akaashi opened his mouth, and closed it again. He gazed out at the frost, where the ice reflected the sleek crystalline light. His brow furrowed, then smoothed.

“To be honest," Akaashi said slowly, "I don’t think about that too much anymore. I think about- how I need to pick up something from the store for our dinner, or how to arrange for good seats to watch your games. When to do the laundry and what silly sounds you make when I seduce you in bed. I think about dropping by the library and what movies you’d like to see in theaters and how I need to be thinking, all the time, to even catch up to what you say.” 

“Not to brag, but I think a lot too. Probably loads more than you,” Bokuto said. 

“Really?” Akaashi’s smile had turned sly and affectionate. “What do you think about so much?”

“How much I like you.” 

“I see.” Akaashi laughed. “That’s cheating, Koutarou.”

Akaashi eventually finished his book at the park, so they visited a bookstore near the small shopping center. He picked out a slim book wrapped in plastic, one that seemed dull with big economic words, so Bokuto turned his attention to the pastry shop across the way. The lights had been strung up across the banners, twinkling when they finally stepped into the station. The snow softened their footsteps until they reached the apartment door. Bokuto bartered for having good meat for dinner, maybe sukiyaki, he wasn’t picky, but it was sukiyaki or nothing, and while they were at it, they should break out the kotatsu and Bokuto promised he wasn’t going to fall asleep under it, or at least he wouldn’t the first night, and naps didn’t count, the definition of naps being that he would wake up at least twenty-four hours later, and they should preorder a good Christmas cake, one with a really fluffy Santa, but of course Akaashi should do that, Bokuto knew his own limits when it came to cake shops, the way Akaashi looked over all those cakes with his cunning eyes was really frightening, but as long as it had a nice strawberry Santa, Bokuto was really okay with anything, wasn’t he a really great boyfriend.

The wind had picked up again, blowing with a strong caress. Akaashi smiled as he held their door open for him to enter.


End file.
